Mike Kripkey's Basement
by PrinceToddyEnglish
Summary: It was the place John Connor and Katherine Brewster first met. Now, meet the man behind the legendary makeout parties. Kripkey takes center stage in this multiple chapter story.
1. Chapter 1

Hi, this fan fiction is based on a character that we never saw in Terminator Three: Rise of The Machines. Mike Kripkey is the focus of this story.

* * *

**Mike Kripkey's Basement**

By

ToddyEnglish

_**"Mike Kripkey? Wait a minute. Isn't that where all the kids used to go to make out?"**_

John Connor

2025

As Sergeant Michael Aaron Kripkey crouched low, huddled within the burnt out derelict, a multitude of reflections raced through his mind. "My fucking beanie bag couch used to be over there." He groaned, to no one at all, as he surveyed the bombed out remnants of what used to be his family's cellar. "And over there I banged Cherry Mahoney, Candy Johnson, Trish Webb, Madison Toller, Britney Stilley, Tiffany Jefferson, and the Tyson triplets." he chuckled, pointing to the filthy heap of debris littering, what used to be, the hardwood floorboards (which lost their luster over a decade ago).

The memories of his glory years were swimming to the forefront like a school of salmon hurtling toward their spawning ground. Mike thought all the good times had long since sunk into the deep recesses of his mind. But, surprisingly, he hadn't forgotten a thing. He had just compartmentalized it all.

John had taught his soldiers to do that. "Pain can be controlled. You just disconnect it,"He'd always say. It was a skill that saved lives. Moreover, it maintained some iota of sanity in an increasingly insane world. Anything not pertaining to the conflict—according to Connor—had to be tucked away in a mental vault of titanium alloy, bound by chains. One stray thought could literally be the difference between life and deathfor a resistance fighter. A split second spent mourning a fallen brother (or sister) in arms could take a warrior's mind off the fact that a T-800 endoskeleton might stride out of the darkness and snap his or her spine like rotting wood.

But, now, Mike had no regrets about indulging his reflections, sad specters of the man he used to be. For the recollections were all that he had left in the world.

Slowly, he attempted to sit down. Mike gnashed his teeth in order to prevent himself from violently recoiling and further injuring his, already, broken body. He could feel the shattered bone fragments in his right hip grinding as the blood spilled from the gaping shrapnel wounds. Mike's right leg had been savagely mangled; and he was fortunate that it allowed him to get so far so quickly, "If the world weren't so fucked up I might actually thank a God for that shit." He slowly backed against the worn slab and slid down to the battered floor paneling. He coughed. A huge gob of phlegm, mixed with blood, wet his pallet.

"Fuck me…didn't know I had this much goddamn blood in my entire body…" he croaked.

Mike fumbled around in his jacket pocket and reached for the silver flask. He popped the cap and took a hearty swig of Moonshine. Mike let the warmth course through his body. It calmed him down significantly.

"Last sip, damn it. I could stand to be trashed right about now" he thought.

Mike's tawny brown skin had turned ghastly pale from the loss of precious fluids, most of which soiled his battle fatigues. The wounded soldier labored to catch his breathe. Three of his ribs—on the left side of his torso—had been broken. And his left eye was blinded by an incendiary bomb that shattered his eardrum and singed his skin. He tried to activate his radio, but it was to no avail. The same bomb that blinded him had fried the communicator.

So, in laymen's terms, Kripkey was screwed.

* * *

Mike never imagined his life would end right where it had begun. Yet that is precisely how the intricate tapestry of fate had woven itself on this his doomed hour of darkness.

Dozier—the strongest—had fallen first. Santiago and Kidman went next. And, after the retaliatory assaults commenced, Chang, Jackson, Cooper, York, Osores, Biggles, Nixon, and Carson fell like dominoes, the umpteenth casualties of a war drudging into its twenty third year.

The pit bull ferocious young men and women had put up a fight worthy of Arthurian legend. They were contemporary dragon slayers. While the poignant elements of the severe mêlée would remain unverified their grandiose sacrifice would inspire the saga of twelve audacious men and women who marched into the very mouth of hell and obliterated it.

The mission had been, by all means, a suicide operation. Even the great John Connor knew with 99.9 certainty that few, if not all, would meet their maker on the endeavor. The Commander and Chief of the human resistance had insisted upon a back up mercenary unit. John knew the risks. He wasn't the leader for nothing. But Mike Kripkey would have none of it. He knew that he was walking into death's gaping maw. But if the mission was to be successful invisibility was paramount. Too much human movement in one sector would alert the machines to their whereabouts. Surprisingly John agreed. But the morose gaze he cast upon Kripkey was one he would never forget, ever.

"Give them hell Kripkey," was the only order issued. John took his shoulders in a sturdy, yet tender, grasp. His intense hazel eyes bore into Mike's. Even though Kripkey was the one going on the mission John's quiet intensity paralleled his own. Mike was a full five inches taller than John, yet the sinewy man seemed larger than life itself. His mere presence carried with it the hopes and dreams of millions upon millions of human beings. The brutal business of war was Connor's legacy, his birthright. And each of the scars on his heavily war battered countenance was a guide to his ascension as mankind's last best hope.

"Yes sir." Kripkey managed. He remained stoic in spite of the overwhelming sense of foreboding.

They both knew, subconsciously, that this was probably the last time they might see each other. Yet they stood within the pregnant silence and mentioned not a word about the dire possibility. Long ago they had met briefly as teenagers. Now, they stood upon the cusp of something monumental…a substantial victory against the metal motherfuckers. It was beyond bittersweet.

All Mike wanted to do was put the goddamn machines on permanent hiatus. And nothing was going to impede on his motivation, not even the fear of fatality. Mike guaranteed a victory to his old friend and leader. With permission granted he was allowed to hand pick a team of Connor's finest. And choosing was the trouble-free part. All of the young soldiers volunteered, trampling one another to be a significant part of the machine's ultimate demise. Through rigorous preparation and training they boldly relinquished the ace card from the machine's iron clutches. It was a feat that had never been accomplished, until now.

* * *

While Connor's forces had made significant inroads, in the past, converting Skynet's mechanisms of fatality into so much scrap metal it wasn't enough. The machine's production capabilities seemed almost infinite. The more the rebels destroyed the more machines there were to occupy their vacancies. Skynet was like the mythical hydra. If one head was lopped off another one grew back to take its place. Skynet's artificial intelligence was almost always one step ahead of the human effort. But not this time. Not on this night.

General Washington, leader of the 115thmilitia, unleashed a rapturous roar of unbridled exhilaration upon sight of the billowing mushroom cloud emanating from Pasadena, California. In the cacophony of destruction the odd and wayward feeling of hope welled within his belly. It felt good, real good. "Sir, mission accomplished! Mission accomplished! Kripkey blew the motherfucker away! They blew it back ta fuckin hell! My unit can see it from way out here! Some decorations are in order, sir! Game on!" he radioed, "The game is fucking on!"

The central processing plant—the very bane of humanity's existence—had been penetrated and annihilated. Connor's intellectual strategists said that it couldn't be done. But it had been. And the resistance would reap the benefits by pouncing upon a now wounded Tiger, Skynet. The hit was substantial. It would take the super computer months to manufacture—and upgrade—more terminator infiltration units, the penultimate reason that Skynet had nearly accomplished its primary objective: the eradication of humanity. With surreptitious capability and the capacity to mimic their human quarry Terminators were the worst of Skynet's arsenal. And, the vast majority of the times, the Terminator units were the preeminent and most effective death dealers. Now, for awhile at least, there would be no new stealth division. With the complex destroyed Skynet's lethal emissaries had been temporarily stalled. The resistance had made a significant dent in its seemingly impenetrable armor. Assassination missions would be sporadic at best. It was all the time the resistance needed to launch a counterattack against the malevolent computer. It would also level a playing field that had been lopsided for far too long.

When the central processing plant went up in a seismic boom Kripkey took a long chugalug of Moonshine whiskey and pissed on the burning remnants. It was a triumph of epic proportion and Mike's big "Fuck You" to Skynet. But the celebration would be short lived. Tonight, for the majority of the human race, it would be a time of merriment and drunkenness. But, for the fallen, there would also be mourning and exaltation.

* * *

Mike was the last man standing from his battalion. What was supposed to have been a stealth mission became an all out war. He checked the digital wrist watch hidden beneath his army fatigues. It was T-10 minutes before a Hunter Killer tactical team would converge on the area, due to the trajectory. The forces coming to finish him off would be depleted (tactical strategy by skynet); however, there were more than enough to deal with one man. Mike's communications link was shot. That made radioing for immediate back up out of the question. Blind and deaf on his left side, thanks to a running centipede incendiary, Mike would have to stand them down with guts and nuts. His leg was still bleeding profusely—showing no signs of clotting—and the shrapnel and debris had all but severed it from his body. But still he stood, like a Spartan soldier in the battle of Thermopylae.

With his men and ammunition spent all Mike had was 'Dusty,' his phased plasma rifle, by his side. He had acquired it, seemingly, a lifetime ago. It was the first time, in this era of terror and casualty; he destroyed a T-800 endoskeleton. And when the maniacally grinning deaths head's eyes faded to black Mike snatched the gun from the smoldering dirt and christened it 'Dusty." Afterwards there were hundreds—perhaps thousands—more that fell at his feet. But no one ever forgot their first kill, not even Connor.

Of all the people Mike had ever and never known he couldn't believe John—the juvenile delinquent brat of a criminally insane mother —Connor would be humanity's self appointed savior. But, like so many others, John had saved his life too. In fact, John had saved Mike in more ways than one. In the doldrums of a concentration camp he drew nearer and nearer to extinguishing his own light. The hauling away of dead bodies, night after night, had scarred Mike psychologically. There was nothing left of the gregarious party boy who seemed to have the greatest fortune in the world. But it was John who helped show him the way. John gave Mike purpose again. It was John who reignited his long lost zeal for life when he thought he had nothing else to live for. All Connor did was give the survivors hope and show them what was possible. Mike and millions more followed him the rest of the way.

At onetime freedom seemed illusory, like a desert mirage. But now it was a tangible concept. Skynet wasn't god, just a manifestation of mankind's supreme arrogance and pomposity. It didn't bleed but it could still die. John had shown him that too.

In another time John Connor would have drawn Mike's ire and ridicule. Now he had only his deepest respect, admiration, and love. Mike Kripkey would die for John Connor. While never a religious man in this godless world Mike Kripkey believed whole hearted in his leader and the wisdom imparted to him by his blessed mother, Sarah Connor.

Now, all alone and wounded, a dogfight inside the ruined confines of his old family home was inevitable, in what used to be "make out central" no less. Mike laughed inwardly at the irony. So much fun and entertainment had gone on down here. Now, what remained was the complete and utter antithesis of his memories. The walls were barren, overrun by weeds, bombed out rubble, soot, dried blood, smoking ash, skulls, human and terminator alike, and the chill of never ending winter. But even still at least it stood. This abhorrent relic was all that Mike Kripkey had to remember his life pre judgment day, a former college football star turned military commando in the post apocalypse. Correlating the two was like viewing two distinct entities. The world had changed. And it had changed a once carefree Kripkey with it.

The basement, once the addendum to a palatial custom designed mansion, was, now, all that remained of Michael Kripkey's father's—Locke Kripkey—blood, sweat, tears, and painstaking labor. Mike remembered his father bragging on the basement constantly, "Nothing, no how, can break this bad boy down. We would survive a nuclear blast down here." He had been right, it did hold. Fortunately for his dad he never got the warning about machines taking over the world. Thus, avoiding the aftermath of nuclear cataclysm altogether. So it had been a blessing and a curse, ultimately.

* * *

Planned as a fortified shelter in case of a terrorist attack—back then—Mike never fathomed the enclosure would be put to any significant use, outside of sneaking girls in. Initially it was party central. If the walls could talk it would be pornographic, to say the least. The basement was one big drunken frat boy sexual free for all. The sound proof walls made it possible for Mike to get laid, at home, while his parents slept, and not be any the wiser in the morning.

How soon things changed on July 1, 2003 at 6:00 p.m. Judgment Day.

The basement finally fulfilled its purpose. Mike and his mother rode out the initial cataclysm and survived the difficult years inside of it.

"Fire is overrated. I'd prefer to be destroyed by ice next time…" Mike chuckled morbidly at the thought. Then his chortles slowly gave way to muted sobs. Mike knew why he was crying. Because, at a hardened 45-years-old, it was the 4th time he had ever done so in his life. The 1st was when his mother was slain. The 2nd time was during the birth of his son. The 3rd was when he saw him die. After that he thought the tears had dried out. "Fate is a funny motherfucker with a real shitty sense of humor." He thought. It was a quote that Connor always used. It spoke quantities about the war, the world, and how everything had turned into a scene from a satanic nightmare.

Never in ten million years did Mike, nor anyone else for that matter, see Judgment Day looming upon the horizon. Like a stalking Cheetah tackling an oblivious Gazelle it ensnared the world's throat in a death grip and never let loose its stranglehold. Lethal winds raged. Nuclear flames smoldered. The long callous winter set in. Billions died. Millions more suffered. Those that withstood the initial cataclysm had survived the foremost echelon of agony…only to be thrust into the most crucial conflict planet Earth had ever seen, the war against the machines. As the computer that controlled the machines, Skynet, arose from the ashes of the nuclear onslaught its objective was singular: the complete and utter eradication of its creator and enemy, human kind. Thus began the mass production of its seemingly endless array of Hunter Killer tanks, aerial gunships, scuttling silverfish, centipedes, and the T-800 endoskeletons, the terminators. These things, these futuristic contraptions, were assigned the task of finishing what the bombs could not complete. Skynet nearly accomplished its mission. That was until John Connor mounted his own campaign to overthrow the tyrannical machine master.

Connor was the reason Mike was here, tonight, at his former home. The world that once was might be again. All because of this sacrifice.

Mike hugged Dusty close to him and kissed the business end. It was the only machine worth anything as far as he was concerned. The ominous sky enshrouded the decades old ruin. The billowing smoke coalesced around the relic like a venomous Cobra ensnaring its prey in crushing coils.

* * *

Mike's crystal blue eyes were languid yet they seethed with fervor and purpose. After the violent deaths of every person he ever loved: His father, his mother, Illyana, 'Kid,' and now his entire unit, Kripkey had nothing else to fight for. And witha hobbled leg he couldn't be of any use, not like he used to be. He would die tonight. That much was certain. But he would go with the knowledge that he accomplished what had seemed impossible. After he was gone he would be mentioned alongside Connor in the history books.

Above head Mike heard the roaring turbines of two hunter-killer aircraft. "They're heeeeere" he whispered, remembering an old horror movie from his youth. Mike slowly stood to his legs, grimacing in pain. He could only hear from his right ear. Dried blood blurred his vision. Mike charged up Dusty andhobbled as quickly as he could behind a fallen concrete slab. If he could take out anymore he would do it. His men deserved that much. For Kripkey the basement was the Alamo andthis would be his last stand.

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**To Be Continued**

_Disclaimer:_

I do not own the character of Mike Kripkey. Nor is the Terminator universe my intellectual property. Just a huge fan of the series.


	2. Chapter 2

**1995:**

**Make out Central**

"Michael, hurry up and get down here! It is almost time to go!" cried a beautifully North African accentuated voice. The striking raven haired beauty flung a wayward tendril away from her dark brown eyes. Even though she had her flowing locks pinned in a neat up sweep individual hairs still had an irritating habit of misplacing themselves. The woman's skin coloring was nearly as dark as her tresses, but not quite. Her willowy frame and delicate facial features offered the illusion of a lady in her mid twenties; however, the attractive woman was one year away from her 41st birthday.

Neatly attired in a: black blazer, skirt, high heeled shoes, and a stunningly white button down blouse, she was the portrait of faultlessness. However, her impeccable appearance was not the correct barometer for her current state of mind this particular morning. At the moment Zahra Abassian-Kripkey was nervous, flustered, and close to being late for her first job interview in almost twenty years.

Three years prior she had gone back to college in an effort to complete her baccalaureate in the Social Sciences (with a concentration in Education). Two months ago Zahra graduated and earned her educator's certification. Now, she was on the cusp of launching her new career path, teaching. Zahra, after years of being a stay at home mother, was excited and empowered by this paradigm shift in her life. In fact she viewed this momentous life alteration as her own personal feminist movement. Everything was finally predicated upon what she wanted.

That was if she could get everything in order around her kitchen, first.

"God damn it!" She spat. Zahra opened the cupboard door as a box of cherry Pop-Tarts, alongside a Captain Crunch cereal box, toppled to the floor, spilling all of their contents, "damn it." She murmured. Zahra padded across the expansive white kitchen floor to retrieve her Dirt Devil.

There wasn't a day that went by when Zahra didn't long for Magdalena in situations as mundane as these. Magdalena Gallegos worked for the Kripkey's, as a clean up woman, ten years prior. However, when Locke and Zahra decided that Zahra should be a stay at home mother there was really no need for a maid any longer. However, that was prior to Locke Kripkey becoming a major player for Cyberdyne Systems. That is when they upgraded to a palatial ten bedroom home, In Sunnyvale, California, that Zahra had to keep clean all by herself.

"Locke, don't you think we should hire another maid? This house really is too big for me to do this all by myself." She often said. To which Locke would reply, with loving condescension, "Maids are too expensive. Besides, you're here." Then he would smile and wave her off, as if the rebuttal were not 100 offensive and dismissive.

Locke's chauvinism infuriated Zahra. Sometimes she wanted to strangle him for his assertions. Although she had spent the majority of her young life in Bahrain and Cairo Zahra had always been independent and head strong. Zahra never believed for a moment that women should be subordinate to men, in spite of her Islamic upbringing (which wasn't as strict and orthodox as others). So it was amusingly ironic that she spent her teens in Berlin, Germany only to meet; fall in love with; and marry a German man with a quintessential male chauvinist attitude. The paradox did not elude her, ever. Sometimes she even laughed about it. Yet, In spite of his flawed rationale Zahra loved Locke, completely.

The first time she met him, in Berlin, he had broken his arm on a bicycle. She had been the cause of the accident, albeit indirectly. As Zahra was walking down the street she made eye contact with a handsome young man on a bicycle. Zahra would never forget his astonishing smile; golden hair; and stunning cerulean eyes. Unfortunately for Locke--in that moment--he was quite taken by the dark beauty and subsequently went careening into curbside. He crashed onto the pavement and fractured his arm in two places. Zahra was the first to run to his aid. When she knelt beside him, worried to death about what had happened, Locke looked up at her, with the same spectacular smile, and said, "You must be the one. I've never fallen that hard for a girl, ever." He laughed. So did Zahra. In that moment she fell for him too; although, she hadn't fallen for him in the literal sense.

Their friendship began inside a Deutsch hospital and culminated into love affair a mere three months later. The two later married; but Zahra regretted not finishing college while being in Germany. But Locke told her, jokingly, that once they emigrated to The United States Zahra would never have to work again. In truth he was right. Locke was a wonderful husband, father, and supplier. Moreover, Zahra loved the way his glittering blue eyes danced whenever he told her a joke that was impossibly trite…However; she was never completely thrilled about becoming the stereotypical "soccer mom".

Zahra took the dirt devil and cleaned up the fallen crumbs. The two men of the house would be irate over a box of Captain Crunch being sucked into the tiny vacuum. She didn't care. "They'll live," Zahra mumbled. She checked her watch. It was 7:00 a.m. Her job interview was at 7:30, at Mango Junior High school, "Michael hurry up, now!" she demanded. Not only did Zahra have her interview scheduled but her son also had an early morning tutorial session. The boy was flunking Pre-Algebra, badly. Fortunately for her, if all went well, she would be teaching at the same middle school that he attended. Zahra knew that was the reason Michael was stalling.

Sometimes she wished she could reverse time and keep her son a small child forever. Zahra loved every waking moment with him back then. Now, he was extraordinarily independent, macho, and testing her patience every chance he got. Michael was a good kid; but, dealing with a 13-year-old was not a task for the meek or faint of heart. "All praises due to Allah for giving me only one son," she would often joke to herself. But, in the end, Zahra beamed with pride whenever she spoke of Michael and his accomplishments. She loved him more than she loved herself.

After she had cleaned the clutter Zahra popped two cherry pop tarts into the toaster and poured a glass of cool orange juice. It was not one of her banner breakfast feasts—the way her husband and son would have preferred—but it would have to do for today. She looked at her watch and plodded to kitchen stairwell, "Michael Aaron Kripkey hurry up or I'm going to drag you out of that bed! I mean it!" Then she paused, "Oh never mind that. I'm going to wake your father!" It was an idle threat, but it usually worked.

Zahra heard the heavy thud of angry feet upstairs.

She smiled to herself and continued to prepare breakfast.

Her husband, Locke Kripkey, had pulled another all nighter at the Cyberdyne facility. So he would be comatose for the next few hours. And that meant he could careless about Michael not getting out of bed. Which meant she was left to do everything even when she herself had to be somewhere in the next half hour. It was procedure in the Kripkey household. Sometimes she wanted to smack Locke. Zahra hated Cyberdyne systems beyond measure. Sure, she loved it for what it had provided her: a nice, quiet, and lovely life. However; Zahra often wondered whether or not she had married her husband or the company when she took her wedding vows. When she and Locke emigrated to The United States of America in 1982 the two of them were inseparable, almost like newly infatuated teenagers. Locke had just completed his Masters degree in Computer Technology; and Zahra was pregnant with their first child. In their small Los Angeles town home Locke began work at the burgeoning technology plant while Zahra toiled as a nurse's aide, uncertain of her career path at the time. They were both extremely happy. Zahra encouraged and supported his dream to make his fortune revolutionizing computer technology. She hadn't known the colossal sacrifices that she would inevitably have to make.

Initially, Cyberdyne hired Kripkey on as a standard full-time employee. However, it wasn't until a mysterious "breakthrough" in 1984 that Locke's time at home went from sometimes sporadic to almost nonexistent. The overtime work was grueling. Locke loved it. But Zahra often times felt like a widow, mourning the loss of her significant other. Only her husband was still alive.

Zahra still had no clue what happened at Cyberdyne that week in 1984. All she got was a phone call from Locke, pulling another all nighter at Cyberdyne (as usual), stating that they had made the discovery of the century. He said there had been an accident, but everything was okay. Zahra had no clue. But for three days, from May 12th – May 15th she was panic stricken. The news reports had been murky at best. The mysterious "Phone Book Killer" had gone on a rampage targeting women named Sarah Connor, and anyone associated with her.

It struck Zahra very hard because she knew the first Sarah Connor from work. Sarah Anne Connor worked as a receptionist in her hospital. The two women even shared their lunch breaks together. And when Zahra was pregnant with Michael, two years prior, it was Sarah who threw an impromptu baby shower at their job.

When she heard the news Zahra felt an overwhelming wave of nausea, grief, and then fear. The news reporter said that Sarah Jeanette Connor's best friend, and roommate, Ginger Ventura, had been killed by the armed assailant. That is when she heard about the Police shootings. Thirty police officers were slain, by the same gunman, at a nearby local precinct. Zahra was certain she might be next on the list. Zahra and Locke locked up that night, keeping Michael in the room with them. Everyone was on edge. Locke even left work three hours early that evening.

And just like that, the morning after, the rampage was over. The last Sarah Connor was found inside of Cyberdyne systems, alive, and nothing else was said about it. Locke would never speak of the incident. Zahra tried her best to goad him, but his mouth might as well have been padlocked. All he would say is, "Its classified honey. Can you get me a bagel out of the refrigerator?"

It was like nothing had ever happened.

That was until five years later. The surviving Sarah Connor tried to blow Cyberdyne up. It was all over the evening news. The papers said she believed machines from the future were going to destroy humanity. Connor was later committed. "Poor thing…" Zahra mused. She couldn't imagine one person going through what she did and not losing their minds. The last Zahra heard was that her young son, John Connor, was with a foster family and went to school with her son. It was as though she couldn't get away from the Connors, no matter who they were.

As it were Zahra wanted to support her husband, because she knew how excited he was about everything going on with the new innovations. Locke was always babbling about "computers that could think for themselves and formulate ideas" and all this other technical jargon that sounded like Greek to her.

Add to that his new found camaraderie with Miles Bennett Dyson was almost symbiotic. The two of them were always together come rain or shine. Whether they were at work or spending time at each other's houses the two men were always involved in top secret research. In fact, whenever Zahra made dinner she reflexively set a place at the table for Miles; because, more than likely, they would be working on the "project" for Cyberdyne…Which ultimately wound up going into the wee hours. It wasn't that she didn't like Miles and his family. Her feelings were quite the opposite. Zahra loved them. It was the slow death of her marriage that she hated.

Zahra found friendship in Theresa Dyson simply because they were in the same boat. The two women often joked that their husbands might be having an affair with one another. It was a joke. But it broke Zahra's heart. She was losing the war against the machines everyday. It seemed like all she had was her son. And now that he was growing up whom would she have then? Zahra often thought about a divorce. But it was because of Michael—and love that she still felt for Locke—that she remained.

Zahra looked at her watch again. She got pissed.

"That's it I'm going to tell your father!" Zahra shrieked. The two cherry pop tarts leapt out of the toaster. She sat the orange juice and warm pastries at the table.

Suddenly, a tall, lanky, sleepy eyed youth came plodding down the stairwell. Dressed in baggy black Cross Colors jeans and a **Hakeem Olajuwon** basketball Jersey the boy looked as though he had just woken up. "Mom, do I have go with you? It's humiliating enough knowing you're going to be a teacher there…So you have to add insult to injury and drive me to class too? Why can't I just ride the bus?" The boy rubbed his astounding blue eyes. With the exception of his stunning eyes and copper toned complexion the unusually attractive young man bore a striking resemblance to his equally gorgeous mother. Although Michael Aaron Kripkey was only 13-years-old he was already a strapping 6'3 and remarkably handsome. His facial geography, a wonderful amalgamation of Middle Eastern and European features, was comparable to a matinee idol. And with the vestigial sprouts of a newly grown mustache and a husky, newly transitioned, bass heavy voice Mike was often mistaken for a handsome college freshmen. He even got into R- rated movies alone, provided he wasn't clean shaven.

His good looks made him increasingly popular with all the little girls in school too. There probably wasn't a single girl at Mango Junior High who didn't have Mike's name bedazzled with hearts and flowers in her notebook. All of the little girls (and some boys too) loved him and everyone considered to be "in" wanted to be in with him. Mike plopped down in front of his pop tarts and orange juice. Zahra cut a sidelong glance at her son, "Must you wear those clown clothes to school?" Zahra hated Mike's predilection for hip hop fashion.

"Must you still have your big ole accent after being in America for how many years now?" Mike laughed. He always loved to tease his parents about their rather ethnic speech patterns. Zahra stifled a smile.

"Do you have your things? We need to be at school by 7:30."

Unaccustomed to waking up at 7:00 a.m. Mike laid his head down and pouted, "Mom, why do I have to go to tutoring? I can't stand Miss Spencer! I'm telling you she hates me. No matter what I do she's going to find a reason to fail me. I'm always failing her class…And why do I need Pre Algebra anyway? I can: add, subtract, multiply, and divide. There is no other reason to take Algebra, especially when I want to play pro-basketball."

Mike pouted.

"You need it so you can keep playing your sport that's why, Michael. Oh and there is the little issue of you getting out of the 8th grade too. How do you think you'll make it to the NBA without going to college first? If it were up to me I would have pulled you off the team. However, your father insisted that you stay on." _It's not like he ever sees him play anyway, _she thought. Zahra looked at her son and shook her head, "If you applied yourself in the classroom as you do in your sports you would be on the honor roll. And you are a good student in all of your other classes Michael. Why are you sabotaging yourself in this one?"

"First of all I don't need to go to college to play in the NBA. Kevin Garnett was just drafted right out of high school…" Mike grinned cheekily.

Zahra sighed. She could not believe his nonchalant attitude.

Mike rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Mom, I'm telling you she hates me. My last report card was three A's, three B's, and one F. That should tell you something right there…" he grumbled. Mike put on his Houston Rockets cap. Even though Mike was from California he was a die hard Rockets fan. He was hoping they would win their second world championship. Mike's aspiration was to someday, in the near future, play on the same team with his Idol Hakeem Olajuwon. Michael Jordan would have been better; however, he was retired so second best would have to cut it.

"Well, she tells me something different. Ms. Spencer thinks you have the potential to be really good in her class. Yet, you refuse to apply yourself. Except for when it comes to the little girls in the room…"

Mike pretended he didn't hear his mother.

"So, you either get it together this six weeks or else you are going to be placed on an extensive punishment: No Nintendo; no more telephone calls from your little girlfriends; no more television; You'll sit out the next basketball game; and your curfew will be moved up to 4 P.M."

"Four o'clock?! That's the time I get home from school, mom!"

"I know…"

"That isn't fair! For one bad grade?!" Mike now sounded every bit his age. He angrily jammed his fists into his pockets ad pouted.

"Oh, and no more inviting your little friends over when we're not here either."

"What are you talking about?" said Mike. He tried to feign innocence. But he couldn't lie to his mother. Sometimes he wondered why he even tried.

"About two weeks ago Mrs. Pleasance called me…" Zahra turned and faced Mike as she hurriedly took a sip from her coffee mug, "Do you know her?"

"Yeah, that's Gina's mom…" Mike rolled his eyes and sank into his chair, "I don't know her that well, if that's what you're trying to say. She's just in my homeroom."

"Well, be that as it may, Mrs. Pleasance called and said that Gina was no longer allowed to come over here. It turns out she came down with mono after she kissed Josh McDaniel five days ago…Then Casey Jordan, you know the little girl down the street? Well, she came down with it too. She said that she was kissing Aaron Thompson after he kissed Gina. I know because her father confronted your's about the situation. Now, twenty two of your classmates are being examined for mono…"

"What does that have to do with me?!" Mike exclaimed, genuinely perturbed, "I didn't give them mono!"

"Well, the fact that our cellar was the scene of the crime is part and parcel Michael! All of those kids were over here—according to them—just days ago. Now, all of them are sick. And I certainly don't think it's a coincidence. Your father and I know about you and your little friends sneaking girls in here to do whatever it is you're doing. The neighbors have made it quite clear what has been going on when the two of us aren't home. Well, I am telling you now that it is going to stop…Or else you will be punished, permanently. I mean it Michael!" Zahra partly blamed herself. The two of them had taken the trips, per marriage counselor's orders, in an effort to save their marriage. However, she overestimated her son's maturity. Now, she had the task of reining him in.

"Yes ma'am." He conceded.

Mike shook his head and picked up his Jansport satchel from the floor.

He was busted this time. Generally, Mike knew when his parents wouldn't be home. They often took frequent vacations to "keep the flame burning" in their 14-year-old marriage, which gave Mike the perfect opportunity to build a reputation.

Kripkey's make out parties were legendary around the school. Even some high school kids partook in them. All of the coolest guys and cutest girls would sneak over, after class ended, and head on down to Kripkey's basement. Spin the Bottle was generally the name of the game. But, most of the time, girls and boys who were already couples came over to make out, period. Mike even charged them money so that he could forge key copies into the basement. Usually, Mike partook in the action, but he was thankful that he hadn't this time. He had, literally, been one kiss away from contracting mononucleosis. Thankfully, Mrs. Pendergrass came banging on the door and the kids fled like jackrabbits. Mike was just about to French kiss Casey and Gina both.

Zahra grabbed her keys, "Let's go…up!" She said. Zahra rousted the boy up from his slumped position. Mike got his cap and shoved it on backwards, in defiance of his mother.

"Locke, we're leaving!" she yelled. No reply except a snort came from down the stairwells. Locke Kripkey was very much unconscious, as usual.

As Mike sauntered down the hall he did so without his usual proud as a peacock strut. When his mother entered the principal's office he knew his days as class clown and all around likable guy were numbered. "Please God don't let her get the job. Please, please, please!" he grumbled under his breath. He grabbed his back pack straps and twirled them around.

"Yo, what's up Kripkey!"

A kid with scraggly red haired kid approached, right hand up and open, waiting for a high five.

Mike slapped his hand and smiled, "What's up Murdock?"

"Not a lot dude…Just got outta Mrs. Spencer's class. I shoulda ditched. I failed the shit out of that test."

Mike forced a lump out of his throat, "Dude, was the test really that hard?"

"If I'm lyin I'm dyin." That was Murdock's favorite quote. Mike knew he was being 100 truthful whenever he said it. Murdock ran two hands through his scraggly red hair and breathed and audible sigh.

"I'm so screwed I know it. I'll bet she has shit on there we never had in class…"

said Mike.

Murdock looked around, just as the hallway began to fill up with students, and back at Mike, "Dude, you wanna ditch? Murphy—y'know that fat kid with the greasy hair? Well he can score us some pot before third period." Murdock cracked a shit eatin grin. He thought it was so cool that Mike Kripkey considered him cool, even acknowledging him in front of the other jocks.

"No way dude, you know I don't mess with that." That was one thing Mike was adamant about. He never even wanted to try drugs. Mike always liked to be at the top of his game. And he never wanted to be one of those disgraced athletes that had to cop to steroid abuse. Weed was just a gateway drug. Mike peered over his shoulder and noticed his mother walking out of the principal's office, with a huge smile on her face. "Aw shit." He grumbled.

"Cool, your mom's gonna be working here?" Murdock laughed, "Sucks to be you big Mike. Catch ya later dude."

"Cool…" Mike waded through the throng of students. Several of the girls waved, smiled, and giggled as he strode through the hallway. A cocky grin alighted upon his lips. On his way to Mrs. Spencer's class he stopped to talk with his teammates: Ronnie, Paul, and Bart. Not only were they Mike's teammates but also his best friends. They all had sports in common; and considering the fact that they were all handsome and gregarious they had their pick of all the girls. Life couldn't be sweeter for this quartet. "What's up bros!" said Mike, as they all gave each other the obligatory high fives and pats on the back…

"Ready for the game on Thursday Kripkey?" said Ronnie. Ronnie was a tall, lanky, dark skinned, African American youth with braces. At 14-years-old his newly deepened voice sounded every bit like an adult male's. Ronnie played the point guard spot on Mango Junior High's basketball team.

"For sure! But I don't know if I'm gonna play though. My mom's been raggin on me again. I have to pass this test in bitch ass Spencer's class…" he sighed, leaning against the locker behind him.

"Man I hate that bitch!" said Bart, "Doesn't she think we have anything else to do besides Algebra? We can't win if you're not in the lineup dude!" Bart Simmons ran a hand over his short spiky blond hair. Dressed in a red t-shirt, blue jeans, and Air Jordan's sneakers he looked every bit the athlete with his broad shoulders and stocky frame. He grabbed his football. Bart was already preparing to play Freshman football next year.

"Yeah, I hate her too. But no pass no play kid. You know the rules…Coach Nixon is strict when it comes to that." Paul added. Paul was always the voice of reason, which is why he had been chosen as team Captain. At age 14 years old had a maturity about him that was otherworldly. Paul's jostled brown hair fell into hazel eyes. He pushed it out of his face. Paul was quite handsome and just beginning to develop facial hair. In his white t-shirt, cargo pants, and converse sneakers he was dressed rather casually compared to his friends in designer name brands.

"No way…I'll be in the game. I'm going to pass. I just gotta sit next to somebody smart." Mike decided he was just going to cheat on the exam.

"Aw shit, you're gonna cheat? You know Mrs. Spencer has an X-Ray machine for eyeballs dude." said Ronnie, sounding a bit nervous.

"Once someone tried to cheat in her class—while her back was turned—and she shouted, in front of everyone, that he had an 'F' then gave him detention for a week!" Bart reiterated. The story was not an urban legend.

Paul thought about it, "Hey, isn't Kate Brewster in your next class?" he said.

"Kate Brewster? Who's that?" said Mike. He drew a blank. He recognized the name just couldn't put a face with it.

"Y'know, that girl with the long brown hair…Uh, she looks sorta like that **Claire Danes** chick on **My So Called Life**." Said Paul.

"Oh yeah that's her! Yeah, totally sit next to her! She makes straight A's!"

said Bart, enthusiastically.

Mike looked at them all and cracked a huge grin,

"You losers watch My So Called Life?"

"Yeah, whatever, that's besides the point…" Paul laughed, "Sit next to her and get as many correct as you can, without getting caught."

"Yeah, and the test is multiple choice. So it's not like you have to copy her answers 100"

said Bart.

Ronnie looked at his wrist watch, "Oh shit, the bell is gonna ring in 60 seconds. If I get one more tardy I'm going to detention! Check you guys later!" With that Ronnie ran off.

"Yeah, I gotta jam to bros. See you guys later!" said Mike. With that he took off to Mrs. Spencer's class.

* * *

When he arrived only ten students had shown up. The other fifteen apparently ditched or had their parents call in sick. Mike swallowed hard. He surveyed the room. On the far left row he saw one loan girl, dressed in pink sweater vest, white shirt, and light brown skirt. Her long brown hair partially covered her face. Mike knew automatically that it was Kate. He walked over and took the empty seat beside her…

The girl smiled meekly. Mike smiled back, "So, you're Kate Brewster right?"

"Yeah…" she said. Then she turned and faced him, "And you're not going to cheat off my test." The girl rolled her eyes and smiled.

Busted.

"Wait, why do you think I was going to ask you that?" He asked. Mike tried to play the entire thing off as a joke.

"Because, you never once acknowledged my existence, in the last five years of living on the same street, until this test." She laughed.

_Ouch._ Thought Mike.

"See, you're wrong! You are so wrong!" he said as he flashed his million dollar smile, "I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to my party this weekend. My parents are going to be out and I just thought you'd like to come over…"

"Seriously?" Kate nodded her head, being halfway condescending and halfway curious.

"Yeah I'm serious. My parents are going out on a date and I figured you might wanna chill with us, watch some videos."

Kate smiled, "Okay sure…But you're still not cheating on my test. Just so we're clear on that."

_God what a bitch!_ Mike thought. _Well, so much for that._

Suddenly…

"Hey…" Kate whispered.

Mike groaned, "Yeah?"

"Do you know John Connor?"

"That kid with the crazy mother? Yeah sorta…Why?" Mike slumped down in his chair and prepped himself for the inevitable F- on the test.

"I was wondering…" she paused before she continued, "Will he be at your party?" Kate pushed a tress of hair behind her ear. Her face almost flushed with embarrassment.

Mike could tell she liked John Connor. He knew he could use this to his advantage, "Yeah, he might be…"

"Oh…"

"You like him, hunh?"

Kate smiled, "Sort of…"

"Well, I'll tell him you're gonna be there. If you…"

"Okay, I'll give you a few of my answers. Just enough to start you off then you fail on your own, okay?"

Mike cracked a shit eating grin, "Definitely!" The only problem was that Mike didn't know Connor from a hole in the wall. But that was irrelevant. No one passed up the chance to do a Kripkey party.

_To Be Continued_

_Author's Note: Although John Connor would, technically, be eleven years old around this time I'm going to stick with the Terminator Three canon. _


End file.
